


toss me overboard, starshine

by cruelzy



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst where there doesn't need to be, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, happy ending I promise, is it angst? eh., shoot me in the face, three times he almost kissed you and the one time he did uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelzy/pseuds/cruelzy
Summary: You throw your head back and laugh heartily as the BlackLock squawks in outrage. Legolas watches your face glow. The joyful sound unfurls him from the inside out like wood flowers in springtime.





	toss me overboard, starshine

**Author's Note:**

> i have work to do now bye

i. **  
**

Legolas hesitantly concludes that his best decisions are made without much thought.

Not to say he is rash. On the contrary—though his every inhale could do with less contemplation beforehand—he considers himself rather circumspect. (As modestly as one could ever self evaluate anyway.) 

There tends to, nevertheless, be a lack of time to muse in the thick of battle. He can count on one hand any gargantuan choices he'd had to make outside of a particularly tense situation. 

Point: world changing verdicts were normally decided on direct instinct, rather than any gradual, logical philosophy. 

Reality: he has had all the time in Middle Earth and more to think about why he should not be with you.

 _Cannot_ , he corrects himself. _Nay should not. Cannot._

Greed. Coil. Collapse.

_Will not._

Your own indecisiveness is louder in the silence. 

It's never truly silent for him, not really, but onset of moonless night has coaxed the land into a reluctant still. His awareness fractures, branches out among the slow shifting plains beneath his feet to the anxious fidget of your dry fingers, the deep seated craving of the forest, the heat of the sleeping company bolstering against his back, bare and familiar and grounding. He keeps watch; the storm in his ears approaches steadfast in the east—torrents to be upon them by noon the latest of morrow, so he plans; he listens to the far flung sea, ever present in her rhythmic whispers, he tracks the mechanical open shut of your mouth in hushed breath as you slowly but surely build your confidence—"Legolas?"

Thunder unfolds itself from the sky. 

Your head snaps to the heavens. Blinking against the night, clumsy in that distinct way of man in dark, "you had something you wished to tell me?"

"No." Legolas says. "Nothing."

ii. 

Time marches on.

They rise. They move. They fight. They sleep. They rise. 

The good and the bad scatters into the wind, lingers in their eyes and their jokes and their bones at the fire. They keep moving. Solidarity is a drive half-cool, offering much needed relief against the merciless sun every moment between. 

"Say, do your hands serve the same purpose as your feet?" A voice rises into morning dew. "If you drop on all fours, you may be able to advance faster than that!" 

"Ha!" You scowl in response, posturing an air of exaggerated disdain and failing terribly. Your lips quiver up at the corners. "I could run to the sun and back and you would still be doing up your boots!" 

The brown eyed dwarf you speak to turns swiftly on his heels, holding Legolas in his sights. He grins wide and white, the embodiment of mischief. "What say you, elf? Who is swifter?"

"Foul play! I have seen the food you offer him after hunt!"

"Give the truth as you see fit, great war-bow warrior, keen-eye of Mirkwood—"

"Bribery!"

The rest of the circle keeps quiet in amused exasperation, wholly familiar with your antics. 

"Perchance he should race with us to properly judge." Ah. Here it is. "If he loses, the punishment shall be a _pleasure_ of mine to ruffle at least two, no, _three_ hairs loose from his perfect mane!" Warmhearted incredulity echoes from his left. "Unimaginable!" 

Legolas smiles. "I do not think you could reach."

You throw your head back and laugh heartily as the BlackLock squawks in outrage. Legolas watches your face glow. The joyful sound unfurls him from the inside out like wood flowers in springtime. 

Longing surges fast. Sudden.

It would be so easy. 

The thought loiters for only a second, but it is a second far too many. His reaction is all but physical: restraint forcefully barreling into him like a tidal wave. Ire immediately follows. Always, always this with you. Eats him alive. _Haunts_. Marvel at the vast expanse of his own incompetence, tossed about like a raft in the surf, lost to emotion's every beck and call as though he were a boy. And if there is anything Legolas is not, it is a _boy_. 

Outwardly, his ears twitch once. 

The sea laughs and laughs.

iii.

(SII' !)

Peace shattered by a cacophony of yells. 

He should have known—the forest had been teething in unrest all morning, but he was, of course, unusually _distracted_. 

And where there is one warg, there are bound to be more. Packs never stray far. Honestly, he would have been more concerned if there was a solo beast; lone, exiled wolves always tend to be more unpredictable, and consequently more dangerous. 

His own pack has tightened, too well polished to break formation. Legolas assesses the situation in a brisk glance before raising a fist level to his sternum, parallel to the ground. The company obediently scatters. _Divide. Lure. Incapacitate._

Earlier hypothesis confirmed, he thinks, absentminded. He did not hesitate for that course of action, now did he?

Legolas frowns. A harrowing blur of teeth and claws draws him back to reality, three answering growls sounding from behind. He presses his lips together. He is in _no_ mood for this. 

In the end it is less a skirmish and more an execution. 

Today, the concept of mercy may as well be as far from him as the Halls of Mandos. He yanks his arrows back from the bodies, apathetically maneuvering around the excessive bloodshed. None of his companions have disappeared from the corners of his visión; in fact, most are beginning to take rest as the struggle winds down. Hard resistance to his movements makes him pause.

The last shaft is unrecognizable amongst the shredded cartilage and sinew. 

Legolas blinks owlishly. 

"Report." 

"All accounted for," there's your voice, effortlessly branded to his skull, "don't worry about the blood."

He tips his head. Legolas has both been around long enough, and been around _you_ long enough, to recognize nuance when he hears it. The timbre of your tone is too innocent. "Is that s--"

You enter line of visión, and whatever amusement there was fizzles entirely out of existence. 

You're a bath of carnage from head to toe.

He straightens, bewildered. 

"Don't worry about the blood," you repeat. Upon your smile is victory, but he can hardly register such a thing, already crossing the distance in three long strides.

Sturdy. Sturdy in front him. Strong as a bough; chest high, shoulders back, hands slick with sweat and grime. Still _vulnerable_. The stench of moldy earth fills his nose. " _Report_." 

You wipe your blade on the grass, eyeing the hand on your arm strangely. Quiet, then _whoosh_ , air punching through your nose in an obvious joking redirection—"Puppy just got too close for comfort. I live."

Once he has visibly confirmed what you say to be true, the relief is dizzyingly tangible. It feels as though his mind is shooting out sparks. 

_Will not._

Desire alone he could handle, but this is something else, something more tender. And what of it? A living disease.

" _Plague,_ " he hisses.

Now that the threat of your demise has cut short, he cannot ignore the heightened adrenaline running rampant in his veins, yet to temper from the sudden battle. 

Fingers clamp tighter into flesh, as though you would vanish into thin air the moment he took hands off you.

For all your confidence, your palms are shaking. This, however, does nothing to the vicious triumph etched into your visage. 

Something slowly jostles awake within him. 

There's a sense of pride, yes, but what raises heavy head under his bones is far more ancient, more volatile. He touches your cheek, watches the up down heave of your chest quicken. Liquid crimson marks exposed skin, slides wet between his knuckles. Your brow is slick with sweat. The trees grow louder and louder in their whispering, crisp leaves crunching underfoot where he inches closer. Every detail on your face has sharpened to a point, and Legolas knows his eyes have blown wide and luminescent.

When he says your name, he can barely recognize his own voice. 

"There is a stream up ahead!"

Reminder of an audience makes him all but growl. The fingers on your cheek drop, lightly brushing up and under the curve of your jaw on their way out. He does not imagine the violent shudder that runs through you.

Legolas _endures_. 

"Alive, indeed," he quips, gaze smoldering. "Be more careful."

* * *

You are going to murder an elf.

You're going to rip out his entrails and wear them as a badge of honour. You're going to wrap up the remains and send them to Thranduil himself. You're going to tug him down to your level and you're going to, you're going to _kiss the ever living daylights out of hi—_

_No!_

You grind your teeth together, stalking down the hallway threateningly. Passersby steer nervously out of your way. 

When you finally find him, he is alone in the kitchens. "Ah!" Your exclamation is purposefully loud, as you vehemently wish he would jump and smash his perfect head into the pans from surprise. Of course, no such thing happens. He probably heard you coming. This only incenses you further. "There you are you intrepid, lousy, good for nothing—"

"I did not know," Legolas drawls, "that it was a crime to prepare oneself a drink."

"Hilarious. You're hilarious. No really, if you ever tire of being a prince, a jester is right next in line."

Hot and cold and hot and cold for months on end with the pointy-eared bastard. He's put the icing on top by _avoiding_ you, when he well knows that with the journey commenced, you are leaving Mirkwood soon.

"There are rumors you have been searching for someone. Were you successful?"

_There have been absolutely no such thing—_

"Oh? I haven't heard." The last dregs of patience spill out of you like a runny egg. "Whose mouths spout such gossip? Ghosts? Are there _spirits_ in these halls?" 

"Perhaps."

"Alright." You are very very done with this conversation. "Here it is. I am going to talk, and _you_ are going to listen."

His eyebrows raise, bemused. Legolas spreads his upturned palms placidly as if to say _go ahead_ , then turns back around, the frame of his body blocking whatever his hands are occupied with from eyesight.

You squint.

"What are you doing?"

"Making tea," he says. He catches your gaze, and without any semblance of warning, you are struck, once again, by his beauty. 

You swallow. 

One would think the novelty would eventually fade and disappear, but not so. It is a fact of his existence: just as the colour of his hair, or the sound of his voice. Noticing is simply seeing. Unavoidable. Legolas is _impossibly beautiful,_ and you are trapped reliving it again and again. 

He calmly slips a spoon into his mouth.

"Care to taste?"

Before your own cowardice can psyche you out of it, you dart forward, tugging the utensil from his lips to thoughtfully place between yours.

A beat.

Legolas tilts his head like some lazy jungle cat, eyes impassive. 

As if on cue, explosions of colour practically bang behind your teeth: pungent woodsmoke and spice and evergreen, _acrid_ , fine sugared juniper flooding thick down your throat. If the very heart of the earth had a taste, it was this.

You _choke_.

"That," says Legolas, "was alcohol."

" _Pardon?_ " 

You gag around the weapon in your mouth, pulling it out faster than the speed of light in genuine panic. If Legolas was capable of downing an entire bar of alcohol without feeling a thing, what would one _drop_ of _elvhen_ alcohol do to you?!

The face you were making must have been hysterical, because Legolas laughs breezily, sweeping up the mug in one smooth motion and taking a long, deliberate sip. 

"I was joking," he finally says. "It is tea." 

"Truly?" You clarify. "No repercussion?"

"Well, you may feel unnaturally clear-headed."

Forget sending remains to Thranduil. You are going to hang them above your front door. 

A sarcastic response nearly flies off of your tongue but dies of clipped wings half way out. You frown. With a start, you realize he's steered you away from your original topic with frighteningly choreographed ease. 

Unease makes you fall quiet, apprehensive.

"You're dangerous," you say. 

"Yes." He smiles, deliciously slow. "Does that scare you?"

You think even a whisper would drain whatever breath you have left, so you don't answer. All the air has fled your lungs.

"A score and two moons ago," Legolas continues evenly, as if you had not become a living statue, "you and I stood outside my father's throne room. Do you remember? You peered out at the turning of the leaves, those great trunks in their shadow, and wondered how glad I was at heart. You said you would be old and grey by the time my father decided we were worth his presence." His eyes crinkle at the corners again, sadly. "I know why you are here, _valarhîw_. It cannot happen." 

You imagine how you must appear to him. The march of time on your features, mortality burning out quick and bright in every tuck and crease of skin, leaking out of each pore, impermeable in your predestined fate. Brevity of such a high-tensioned existence: chase of second to second, the constant companion that is anticipation, desperation, anticipation, you imagine, is inconceivable to a being thousands of years old. Your entire life is simply one of his weeks. 

_And yet_ , something traitorous whispers in your ear. _He is still here._

"You know what I think?" You croak.

Legolas does not respond.

"I think you are trying to scare me off. I think you are more terrified of the alternative."

"Trust me, child," he sounds seemingly the same, but his gaze is molten. "Heartbreak is no simple matter."

The inevitable tragedy of your story. You logically hear what he is saying, but your heart has stopped listening ages ago. The concealed pain on his face squeezes a hand round your ribs and _pulls_. 

Desire alone you could handle, but this is something else. Something more tender. 

And what of it?

"We will cross that bridge when we get there."

"Please," he breathes, struggling against the typhoon that is your humanity, the whirlwind of here and now buried in your species' gravity, your rage against the dying of the light—tiny little blips in a grand world ruthlessly determined on stamping their footprint on eternity. It completely contrasts his very identity. His mask cracks, soft and unguarded. "You do not know what you ask for. Please." 

"Or maybe," you sneer. " _You_ are not _able to give_."

The words hang in the air. Staggering.

Legolas slams you into the counter. You see a flash of teeth, quick as lightning, before his mouth is on yours. 

The first thing you think is that you were way in over your head. 

Then you're not thinking anything really because all else instantly ceases to matter.

His kiss is white-hot and overwhelming, drawing a hopeless whimper up your throat like water from a well. You throw your arms up and around his neck frantically until utterly no space exists between you. Or, trying, failing, hands dropping to frantically press and wander about his chest because _why is he so tall,_ your mind going void again as he crowds closer, thighs pressing to thighs and large hands searing above your waist, behind your head. The mug shatters at your feet. Punishing bites are soothed by slow, firm strokes of his tongue, leaving you to gasp and shake against the hard planes of him. He is relentless, steady and insistent against your urgent quickness. Legolas kisses you and kisses you until you think that maybe that talk of mortality was for nothing. No, you are going to die of pleasure right here and right now, at the mercy of your tormentor.

"If—" you tear away just enough to cup his face in your sweaty palms, fighting for air, "if we do this, it is all the way. You do _not_ , you do not take the parts of me you want, you—wait—you accept all of me—"

"Ed' i' ear ar' elenea, Melamin!" He laughs, clear and bright. "For once, _shh!_ "

Your reply is lost to the wind. 

Or his mouth.

(It was definitely his mouth.)

**Author's Note:**

> hey i'm on tumblr too, blah blah blah


End file.
